


Part 31: Brian

by oiuytrewq36



Series: Let's Hear It for the Boy [5]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26624266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36
Summary: “You know,” Frances says, walking up to stand next to me on the doorstep, “most sensible employees would probably decline if their boss told them to meet them at someone else’s house without any explanation.”I ring the doorbell. “Emmett knows we’re coming.”“Not exactly my point.”“Why can’t I invite my friends over for brunch?”She looks at me. “Again, it’s not inviting me over if it’s not your house. And I’m fairly sure that you loathe the entire concept of brunch and anyone who partakes in it.”
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: Let's Hear It for the Boy [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928482
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	Part 31: Brian

“You know,” Frances says, walking up to stand next to me on the doorstep, “most sensible employees would probably decline if their boss told them to meet them at someone else’s house without any explanation.”

I ring the doorbell. “Emmett knows we’re coming.”

“Not exactly my point.”

“Why can’t I invite my friends over for brunch?”

She looks at me. “Again, it’s not inviting me over if it’s not your house. And I’m fairly sure that you loathe the entire concept of brunch and anyone who partakes in it.”

I shrug.

“So are you going to tell me why we’re here, or-”

Emmett opens the door, beaming and wearing a flowery apron. I consider turning around and driving back to the city without another word, then remind myself that I’m not doing this for me. Selfless acts are a real pain in the ass, it’s turning out.

Fuck, I need a cigarette.

Emmett waves us through the house to the back garden while I pat around in my pockets, hoping for a stray Marlboro filter-tip that Justin might have missed in last week’s edition of his semi-regular let’s-go-cold-turkey cleanouts. I come up with a few condoms and a crumpled half-empty strip of Nicorette - not ideal, but whatever.

Duncan and Daphne are out back - just great, more witnesses - and Emmett kisses Duncan on the cheek before setting down a tray of scones and chopped fruit in front of us. “Eat up!”

I look forlornly at the tab of gum in my hand before deciding that since I’m here to ask a favor, I probably shouldn’t piss off my hosts more than I have to. I put the gum in my pocket and take a scone. Frances gives me a curious look, but doesn’t say anything.

“So,” Emmett says to me, still horrifically cheerful, “not that I’ll ever say no to a casual garden party, but is there a reason that you left me six voicemails at 3 a.m. asking if you and several friends who weren’t aware they were invited until I called them could come over today?”

I wince. I’d thought I stopped at four voicemails, but apparently not. I hate my drunk self sometimes.

Duncan looks concerned. Frances and Daphne look amused. I steel my nerve - _man up, Kinney, you miserable bastard_ \- and say, “I want to throw Justin a surprise party. For our, um, our anniversary. Our wedding anniversary.”

Emmett goes, “aww, honey,” and Daphne bursts out laughing. Duncan, who met me years ago but seems determined not to believe any of the horror stories my friends have told him, just looks confused.

“Jesus, Brian,” Frances says, probably in response to my kill-me-now expression. “I know your whole thing is hating birthday parties and shit, but really? I think you were less secretive about the Pendergrass operation.”

“You hate _birthday parties_?” Duncan says. Someone give the boy a prize.

Daphne starts giggling. Again.

Emmett’s still smiling at me like I’m a baby penguin. “Any particular reason?”

I shrug. “Justin’s been having a rough time lately. He’s always stressed about work, and this big show he was supposed to have in Chicago got postponed by six months, so of course he thinks they’re cutting him out, and-”

“Well,” Emmett says, “I think it’s sweet that you want to cheer him up. What kind of party were you thinking? Classy? Trashy?”

“Oooh, what about a vow renewal ceremony?” Daphne says, eyes lighting up. She grins at my pained expression, so I think she’s messing with me. I hope.

I put down my scone and reach for my pocket, because if any of them think I’m doing this without stimulants they’re out of their minds.

***

One thing that I forgot to factor into my plan, it turns out, is that Justin is a stubborn little prick, particularly when he’s in a bad mood. Emmett promised to have everything ready at the condo by six, so it’s my job to track Justin down. Daily sulky multi-hour walks had become a fixture in his schedule after the Chicago show delay happened (my personal opinion is that he’s trying to find something to replace aimlessly smoking and staring at the walls - I can identify with that feeling, anyway). 

He’s not answering my texts, but I know his favorite spots by heart. I find him at the social-anarchist coffee shop where he used to work, sipping from a mug of (almost certainly oversweetened) coffee and filling what appears to be his fiftieth napkin with rough sketches.

I sit down across from him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Justin gives me one of his patented death glares. Unfortunately for him, I’ve been immune to those since he was seventeen. “You hate this place,” he says, gesturing around the dingy dining area. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you. Obviously.”

Justin holds up his hands. “Well, you found me. Obviously.”

I sigh and take his wrists, lowering them back to the table. “Can I take you home?”

“Why?”

“It just seems like you could use a change of scene.”

Justin laughs, short and cold. “You have no idea.”

I kiss the ring on his right hand. “Well, why don’t you tell me about it on the walk back?”

His eyes soften, a little, and he laces his fingers through mine. “Let me finish my coffee and I’ll meet you outside, okay?”

He emerges about five minutes later, messenger bag over his shoulder, and I put an arm around his shoulders as we start on the walk back.

“Sorry if I’ve been a little … distant recently,” he says. “I just feel like every day I wake up and I do the same old shit, and I don’t have anything big coming up to look forward to or work towards.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell him, pulling him closer so I can kiss his cheek. “You shot to fame overnight. I’d probably be more worried if you _hadn’t_ had some kind of slump by now.”

He laughs, for real this time. “That’s comforting.”

I kiss him again. “It’s what I’m here for.”

Justin’s mood has improved by the time we step off the elevator. “By the way,” he says, holding my hand as we walk to the door, “what’s up with you today? First you encourage me to go take a walk, then you text me a million times and track me down in person so you can bring me home.”

I shrug. “Sorry for the confusion, but we needed time to inflate all the balloons.”

“What?”

I open the door. 

“SURPRISE!”

Open-mouthed, Justin looks around, takes in the balloons, the streamers, the food, Emmett, Daphne, Frances, Duncan, Cynthia, Quinn, Sam, and - my pièce de résistance - Jennifer and Molly, flown in from Pittsburgh this afternoon.

He turns to me. “You did this?”

I grin. “No, our friends must have broken into our apartment and set up a lavish celebration for our benefit.” I put my arm back around him and kiss him. “Happy anniversary, Sunshine.”

Justin makes a soft little sound in the back of his throat, so much emotion in his eyes that I can feel my chest tightening just looking at him, and then rests his forehead against my cheek. “I love you,” he murmurs, before our friends surround us, bearing presents and plates of food.

Emmett pushes a button on the boom box that I’d hauled down from the studio this morning, and a thumping bassline starts reverberating through the condo. “It’s not a party if you don’t dance,” he says, tapping me on the shoulder, and Justin smiles at me as I tug him towards the living-room-turned-dance-floor.

The group of us dance and drink and eat until well past midnight, and then go up to the second floor to look at Justin’s latest work and the city lights at night. We end up in a rough circle on the studio floor at two a.m., talking and laughing, passing a joint between us (Jennifer, I’m somehow not at all surprised to learn, is a master at blowing smoke rings). Since it’s an anniversary party, no one can really tell Justin and I off for our displays of affection - it’s not like that ever stopped us before, to be fair - so we make out and cling to each other and generally act just as disgustingly in love as we are, and I kick myself for ever thinking that this was something to be afraid of.

Eventually, people start heading home, and we call them cabs and otherwise pretend we’re responsible adults until everyone has a ride to wherever they need to go. When we’ve said the last goodbye, Justin and I collapse on the sofa with a leftover plate of canapés and a bottle of champagne.

“This was- so perfect,” Justin says, rubbing the tip of his nose against my temple. I’m feeling pleasantly tipsy and warm, so I pull him into my lap, basking in the solid familiar warmth of his body against mine. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” I tell him, and he smiles.

“There’s just one problem.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What?”

“Our anniversary isn’t until next Wednesday.”

I grin at him. “I know that. Which is why, after we have breakfast with your mom and sister before they head back home, a private car will take us to the airport, from where we will fly to Curaçao for a week at the resort where we had our honeymoon.”

Justin stares at me for a full fifteen seconds or so. Then he grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me into a fierce, furious kiss. 

He pulls back, panting, still looking right at me, wide-eyed. Then he leans over and murmurs into my ear, “You have _no idea_ how lucky you’re about to get.”

I smile at him and kiss him, soundly, feeling his pulse everywhere I touch him. I lie back and pull him on top of me, and he laughs, lazy, low and beautiful. “Someone’s impatient.”

I run a hand through his hair. “Can you blame me? You’re irresistible.”

“I know,” he says, smirking. “Now take off your pants.”


End file.
